CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTH INTO HIS FAVOURITETHEME, AND RELATES A STORY ABOUT A QUEER CLIENT
'Aha!' said the old man, a brief description of whose manner andappearance concluded the last chapter, 'aha! who was talking about theinns?'
'I was, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick--'I was observing what singular oldplaces they are.'
'_You_!' said the old man contemptuously. 'What do _you _know of thetime when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and readand read, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reasonwandered beneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers wereexhausted; till morning's light brought no freshness or health to them;and they sank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful energiesto their dry old books? Coming down to a later time, and a verydifferent day, what do _you_ know of the gradual sinking beneathconsumption, or the quick wasting of fever--the grand results of "life"and dissipation--which men have undergone in these same rooms? How manyvain pleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heart-sick fromthe lawyer's office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refugein the jail? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel inthe old wainscotting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers ofspeech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale ofhorror--the romance of life, Sir, the romance of life! Common-place asthey may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I wouldrather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name, than the truehistory of one old set of chambers.'
There was something so odd in the old man's sudden energy, and thesubject which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared withno observation in reply; and the old man checking his impetuosity, andresuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previous excitement,said--
'Look at them in another light--their most common-place and leastromantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needyman who has spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, toenter the profession, which is destined never to yield him a morsel ofbread. The waiting--the hope--the disappointment--the fear--the misery--the poverty--the blight on his hopes, and end to his career--the suicideperhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I not right about them?'And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight at havingfound another point of view in which to place his favourite subject.
Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder ofthe company smiled, and looked on in silence.
'Talk of your German universities,' said the little old man. 'Pooh,pooh! there's romance enough at home without going half a mile for it;only people never think of it.'
'I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before,certainly,' said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.
'To be sure you didn't,' said the little old man; 'of course not. As afriend of mine used to say to me, "What is there in chambers inparticular?" "Queer old places," said I. "Not at all," said he."Lonely," said I. "Not a bit of it," said he. He died one morning ofapoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell with his head inhis own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Everybodythought he'd gone out of town.'
'And how was he found out at last?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn't paidany rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very dustyskeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward inthe arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather,perhaps; rather, eh?' The little old man put his head more on one side,and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.
'I know another case,' said the little old man, when his chuckles had insome degree subsided. 'It occurred in Clifford's Inn. Tenant of a topset--bad character--shut himself up in his bedroom closet, and took adose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away: opened the door,and put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers, furnished them,and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn't sleep--alwaysrestless and uncomfortable. "Odd," says he. "I'll make the other room mybedchamber, and this my sitting-room." He made the change, and sleptvery well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow, he couldn't readin the evening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to be alwayssnuffing his candles and staring about him. "I can't make this out,"said he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking aglass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn'tbe able to fancy there was any one behind him--"I can't make it out,"said he; and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that hadbeen always locked up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame fromtop to toe. "I have felt this strange feeling before," said he, "Icannot help thinking there's something wrong about that closet." He madea strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blowor two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standingbolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottleclasped firmly in his hand, and his face--well!' As the little old manconcluded, he looked round on the attentive faces of his wonderingauditory with a smile of grim delight.
'What strange things these are you tell us of, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick,minutely scanning the old man's countenance, by the aid of his glasses.
'Strange!' said the little old man. 'Nonsense; you think them strange,because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncommon.'
'Funny!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily.
'Yes, funny, are they not?' replied the little old man, with adiabolical leer; and then, without pausing for an answer, he continued--
'I knew another man--let me see--forty years ago now--who took an old,damp, rotten set of chambers, in one of the most ancient inns, that hadbeen shut up and empty for years and years before. There were lots ofold women's stories about the place, and it certainly was very far frombeing a cheerful one; but he was poor, and the rooms were cheap, andthat would have been quite a sufficient reason for him, if they had beenten times worse than they really were. He was obliged to take somemouldering fixtures that were on the place, and, among the rest, was agreat lumbering wooden press for papers, with large glass doors, and agreen curtain inside; a pretty useless thing for him, for he had nopapers to put in it; and as to his clothes, he carried them about withhim, and that wasn't very hard work, either. Well, he had moved in allhis furniture--it wasn't quite a truck-full--and had sprinkled it aboutthe room, so as to make the four chairs look as much like a dozen aspossible, and was sitting down before the fire at night, drinking thefirst glass of two gallons of whisky he had ordered on credit, wonderingwhether it would ever be paid for, and if so, in how many years' time,when his eyes encountered the glass doors of the wooden press. "Ah,"says he, "if I hadn't been obliged to take that ugly article at the oldbroker's valuation, I might have got something comfortable for themoney. I'll tell you what it is, old fellow," he said, speaking aloud tothe press, having nothing else to speak to, "if it wouldn't cost more tobreak up your old carcass, than it would ever be worth afterward, I'dhave a fire out of you in less than no time." He had hardly spoken thewords, when a sound resembling a faint groan, appeared to issue from theinterior of the case. It startled him at first, but thinking, on amoment's reflection, that it must be some young fellow in the nextchamber, who had been dining out, he put his feet on the fender, andraised the poker to stir the fire. At that moment, the sound wasrepeated; and one of the glass doors slowly opening, disclosed a paleand emaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing erect in thepress. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance expressive ofcare and anxiety; but there was something in the hue of the skin, andgaunt and unearthly appearance of the whole form, which no being of thisworld was ever seen to wear. "Who are you?" said the new tenant, turningvery pale; poising the poker in his hand, however, and taking a verydecent aim at the countenance of the figure. "Who are you?" "Don't throwthat poker at me," replied the form; "if you hurled it with ever so surean aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expend itsforce on the wood behind.
I am a spirit." "And pray, what do you wanthere?" faltered the tenant. "In this room," replied the apparition, "myworldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. In this press,the papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, weredeposited. In this room, when I had died of grief, and long-deferredhope, two wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contestedduring a wretched existence, and of which, at last, not one farthing wasleft for my unhappy descendants. I terrified them from the spot, andsince that day have prowled by night--the only period at which I canrevisit the earth--about the scenes of my long-protracted misery. Thisapartment is mine: leave it to me." "If you insist upon making yourappearance here," said the tenant, who had had time to collect hispresence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost's, "I shallgive up possession with the greatest pleasure; but I should like to askyou one question, if you will allow me." "Say on," said the apparitionsternly. "Well," said the tenant, "I don't apply the observationpersonally to you, because it is equally applicable to most of theghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to me somewhat inconsistent,that when you have an opportunity of visiting the fairest spots ofearth--for I suppose space is nothing to you--you should always returnexactly to the very places where you have been most miserable." "Egad,that's very true; I never thought of that before," said the ghost. "Yousee, Sir," pursued the tenant, "this is a very uncomfortable room. Fromthe appearance of that press, I should be disposed to say that it is notwholly free from bugs; and I really think you might find much morecomfortable quarters: to say nothing of the climate of London, which isextremely disagreeable." "You are very right, Sir," said the ghostpolitely, "it never struck me till now; I'll try change of airdirectly"--and, in fact, he began to vanish as he spoke; his legs,indeed, had quite disappeared. "And if, Sir," said the tenant, callingafter him, "if you _would _have the goodness to suggest to the otherladies and gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting old empty houses,that they might be much more comfortable elsewhere, you will confer avery great benefit on society." "I will," replied the ghost; "we must bedull fellows--very dull fellows, indeed; I can't imagine how we can havebeen so stupid." With these words, the spirit disappeared; and what israther remarkable,' added the old man, with a shrewd look round thetable, 'he never came back again.'
'That ain't bad, if it's true,' said the man in the Mosaic studs,lighting a fresh cigar.
'_If_!' exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive contempt. 'Isuppose,' he added, turning to Lowten, 'he'll say next, that my storyabout the queer client we had, when I was in an attorney's office, isnot true either--I shouldn't wonder.'
'I shan't venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that I neverheard the story,' observed the owner of the Mosaic decorations.
'I wish you would repeat it, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Ah, do,' said Lowten, 'nobody has heard it but me, and I have nearlyforgotten it.'
The old man looked round the table, and leered more horribly than ever,as if in triumph, at the attention which was depicted in every face.Then rubbing his chin with his hand, and looking up to the ceiling as ifto recall the circumstances to his memory, he began as follows:--
THE OLD MAN'S TALE ABOUT THE QUEER CLIENT
'It matters little,' said the old man, 'where, or how, I picked up thisbrief history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reachedme, I should commence in the middle, and when I had arrived at theconclusion, go back for a beginning. It is enough for me to say thatsome of its circumstances passed before my own eyes; for the remainder Iknow them to have happened, and there are some persons yet living, whowill remember them but too well.
'In the Borough High Street, near St. George's Church, and on the sameside of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of ourdebtors' prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been avery different place from the sink of filth and dirt it once was, evenits improved condition holds out but little temptation to theextravagant, or consolation to the improvident. The condemned felon hasas good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the insolvent debtorin the Marshalsea Prison. [Better. But this is past, in a better age,and the prison exists no longer.]
'It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place fromthe old recollections associated with it, but this part of London Icannot bear. The street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise ofpassing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people--all thebusy sounds of traffic, resound in it from morn to midnight; but thestreets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery lie festeringin the crowded alleys; want and misfortune are pent up in the narrowprison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my eyes at least, tohang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and sickly hue.
'Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the grave, have lookedround upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the oldMarshalsea Prison for the first time; for despair seldom comes with thefirst severe shock of misfortune. A man has confidence in untriedfriends, he remembers the many offers of service so freely made by hisboon companions when he wanted them not; he has hope--the hope of happyinexperience--and however he may bend beneath the first shock, itsprings up in his bosom, and flourishes there for a brief space, untilit droops beneath the blight of disappointment and neglect. How soonhave those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from faceswasted with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when it was nofigure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with no hope ofrelease, and no prospect of liberty! The atrocity in its full extent nolonger exists, but there is enough of it left to give rise tooccurrences that make the heart bleed.
'Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footsteps of a motherand child, who, day by day, so surely as the morning came, presentedthemselves at the prison gate; often after a night of restless miseryand anxious thoughts, were they there, a full hour too soon, and thenthe young mother turning meekly away, would lead the child to the oldbridge, and raising him in her arms to show him the glistening water,tinted with the light of the morning's sun, and stirring with all thebustling preparations for business and pleasure that the river presentedat that early hour, endeavour to interest his thoughts in the objectsbefore him. But she would quickly set him down, and hiding her face inher shawl, give vent to the tears that blinded her; for no expression ofinterest or amusement lighted up his thin and sickly face. Hisrecollections were few enough, but they were all of one kind--allconnected with the poverty and misery of his parents. Hour after hourhad he sat on his mother's knee, and with childish sympathy watched thetears that stole down her face, and then crept quietly away into somedark corner, and sobbed himself to sleep. The hard realities of theworld, with many of its worst privations--hunger and thirst, and coldand want--had all come home to him, from the first dawnings of reason;and though the form of childhood was there, its light heart, its merrylaugh, and sparkling eyes were wanting.
'The father and mother looked on upon this, and upon each other, withthoughts of agony they dared not breathe in words. The healthy, strong-made man, who could have borne almost any fatigue of active exertion,was wasting beneath the close confinement and unhealthy atmosphere of acrowded prison. The slight and delicate woman was sinking beneath thecombined effects of bodily and mental illness. The child's young heartwas breaking.
'Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girlhad removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband'simprisonment; and though the change had been rendered necessary by theirincreasing poverty, she was happier now, for she was nearer him. For twomonths, she and her little companion watched the opening of the gate asusual. One day she failed to come, for the first time. Another morningarrived, and she came alone. The child was dead.
'They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man's bereavements, as ahappy release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief fromexpense to the survivor--they little know, I say, what the agony ofthose bereavements is. A silent look of affection an
d regard when allother eyes are turned coldly away--the consciousness that we possess thesympathy and affection of one being when all others have deserted us--isa hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealthcould purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat at his parents' feetfor hours together, with his little hands patiently folded in eachother, and his thin wan face raised towards them. They had seen him pineaway, from day to day; and though his brief existence had been a joylessone, and he was now removed to that peace and rest which, child as hewas, he had never known in this world, they were his parents, and hisloss sank deep into their souls.
'It was plain to those who looked upon the mother's altered face, thatdeath must soon close the scene of her adversity and trial. Herhusband's fellow-prisoners shrank from obtruding on his grief andmisery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had previouslyoccupied in common with two companions. She shared it with him; andlingering on without pain, but without hope, her life ebbed slowly away.
'She had fainted one evening in her husband's arms, and he had borne herto the open window, to revive her with the air, when the light of themoon falling full upon her face, showed him a change upon her features,which made him stagger beneath her weight, like a helpless infant.
'"Set me down, George," she said faintly. He did so, and seating himselfbeside her, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.
'"It is very hard to leave you, George," she said; "but it is God'swill, and you must bear it for my sake. Oh! how I thank Him for havingtaken our boy! He is happy, and in heaven now. What would he have donehere, without his mother!"
'"You shall not die, Mary, you shall not die;" said the husband,starting up. He paced hurriedly to and fro, striking his head with hisclenched fists; then reseating himself beside her, and supporting her inhis arms, added more calmly, "Rouse yourself, my dear girl. Pray, praydo. You will revive yet."
'"Never again, George; never again," said the dying woman. "Let them layme by my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leave thisdreadful place, and should grow rich, you will have us removed to somequiet country churchyard, a long, long way off--very far from here--where we can rest in peace. Dear George, promise me you will."
'"I do, I do," said the man, throwing himself passionately on his kneesbefore her. "Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look--but one!"
'He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck grew stiff andheavy. A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him; the lipsmoved, and a smile played upon the face; but the lips were pallid, andthe smile faded into a rigid and ghastly stare. He was alone in theworld.
'That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, thewretched man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on Godto witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himself torevenge her death and that of his child; that thenceforth to the lastmoment of his life, his whole energies should be directed to this oneobject; that his revenge should be protracted and terrible; that hishatred should be undying and inextinguishable; and should hunt itsobject through the world.
'The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierceravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions inmisfortune shrank affrighted from him as he passed by. His eyes werebloodshot and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent as ifwith age. He had bitten his under lip nearly through in the violence ofhis mental suffering, and the blood which had flowed from the wound hadtrickled down his chin, and stained his shirt and neckerchief. No tear,or sound of complaint escaped him; but the unsettled look, anddisordered haste with which he paced up and down the yard, denoted thefever which was burning within.
'It was necessary that his wife's body should be removed from theprison, without delay. He received the communication with perfectcalmness, and acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of theprison had assembled to witness its removal; they fell back on eitherside when the widower appeared; he walked hurriedly forward, andstationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close to the lodgegate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling of delicacy,had retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly forward on men'sshoulders. A dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only by theaudible lamentations of the women, and the shuffling steps of thebearers on the stone pavement. They reached the spot where the bereavedhusband stood: and stopped. He laid his hand upon the coffin, andmechanically adjusting the pall with which it was covered, motioned themonward. The turnkeys in the prison lobby took off their hats as itpassed through, and in another moment the heavy gate closed behind it.He looked vacantly upon the crowd, and fell heavily to the ground.
'Although for many weeks after this, he was watched, night and day, inthe wildest ravings of fever, neither the consciousness of his loss, northe recollection of the vow he had made, ever left him for a moment.Scenes changed before his eyes, place succeeded place, and eventfollowed event, in all the hurry of delirium; but they were allconnected in some way with the great object of his mind. He was sailingover a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and theangry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up, on everyside. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in thehowling storm; her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and herdeck thronged with figures who were lashed to the sides, over which hugewaves every instant burst, sweeping away some devoted creatures into thefoaming sea. Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass of water, with aspeed and force which nothing could resist; and striking the stem of theforemost vessel, crushed her beneath their keel. From the huge whirlpoolwhich the sinking wreck occasioned, arose a shriek so loud and shrill--the death-cry of a hundred drowning creatures, blended into one fierceyell--that it rung far above the war-cry of the elements, and echoed,and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air, sky, and ocean. But what wasthat--that old gray head that rose above the water's surface, and withlooks of agony, and screams for aid, buffeted with the waves! One look,and he had sprung from the vessel's side, and with vigorous strokes wasswimming towards it. He reached it; he was close upon it. They were _his_features. The old man saw him coming, and vainly strove to elude hisgrasp. But he clasped him tight, and dragged him beneath the water.Down, down with him, fifty fathoms down; his struggles grew fainter andfainter, until they wholly ceased. He was dead; he had killed him, andhad kept his oath.
'He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot andalone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thin grains entered thevery pores of his skin, and irritated him almost to madness. Giganticmasses of the same material, carried forward by the wind, and shonethrough by the burning sun, stalked in the distance like pillars ofliving fire. The bones of men, who had perished in the dreary waste, layscattered at his feet; a fearful light fell on everything around; so faras the eye could reach, nothing but objects of dread and horrorpresented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with histongue cleaving to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed withsupernatural strength, he waded through the sand, until, exhausted withfatigue and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrantcoolness revived him; what gushing sound was that? Water! It was indeeda well; and the clear fresh stream was running at his feet. He drankdeeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sank into adelicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. An oldgray-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. It was_he_ again! He wound his arms round the old man's body, and held himback. He struggled, and shrieked for water--for but one drop of water tosave his life! But he held the old man firmly, and watched his agonieswith greedy eyes; and when his lifeless head fell forward on his bosom,he rolled the corpse from him with his feet.
'When the fever left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to findhimself rich and free, to hear that the parent who would have let himdie in jail--_would_! who _had _let those who were far dearer to himthan his own existence die of want, and sickness of heart that medicinecannot cu
re--had been found dead in his bed of down. He had had all theheart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even of his health andstrength, had put off the act till it was too late, and now might gnashhis teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealth hisremissness had left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to more. Torecollect the purpose for which he lived, and to remember that his enemywas his wife's own father--the man who had cast him into prison, andwho, when his daughter and her child sued at his feet for mercy, hadspurned them from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness thatprevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of vengeance!
'He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and misery,and conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not in the hope ofrecovering his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever;but to restore his prostrate energies, and meditate on his darlingobject. And here, some evil spirit cast in his way the opportunity forhis first, most horrible revenge.
'It was summer-time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he would issuefrom his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wandering along anarrow path beneath the cliffs, to a wild and lonely spot that hadstruck his fancy in his ramblings, seat himself on some fallen fragmentof the rock, and burying his face in his hands, remain there for hours--sometimes until night had completely closed in, and the long shadows ofthe frowning cliffs above his head cast a thick, black darkness on everyobject near him.
'He was seated here, one calm evening, in his old position, now and thenraising his head to watch the flight of a sea-gull, or carry his eyealong the glorious crimson path, which, commencing in the middle of theocean, seemed to lead to its very verge where the sun was setting, whenthe profound stillness of the spot was broken by a loud cry for help; helistened, doubtful of his having heard aright, when the cry was repeatedwith even greater vehemence than before, and, starting to his feet, hehastened in the direction whence it proceeded.
'The tale told itself at once: some scattered garments lay on the beach;a human head was just visible above the waves at a little distance fromthe shore; and an old man, wringing his hands in agony, was running toand fro, shrieking for assistance. The invalid, whose strength was nowsufficiently restored, threw off his coat, and rushed towards the sea,with the intention of plunging in, and dragging the drowning man ashore.
'"Hasten here, Sir, in God's name; help, help, sir, for the love ofHeaven. He is my son, Sir, my only son!" said the old man frantically,as he advanced to meet him. "My only son, Sir, and he is dying beforehis father's eyes!"
'At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checked himself inhis career, and, folding his arms, stood perfectly motionless.
'"Great God!" exclaimed the old man, recoiling, "Heyling!"
'The stranger smiled, and was silent.
'"Heyling!" said the old man wildly; "my boy, Heyling, my dear boy,look, look!" Gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed to thespot where the young man was struggling for life.
'"Hark!" said the old man. "He cries once more. He is alive yet.Heyling, save him, save him!"
'The stranger smiled again, and remained immovable as a statue.
'"I have wronged you," shrieked the old man, falling on his knees, andclasping his hands together. "Be revenged; take my all, my life; cast meinto the water at your feet, and, if human nature can repress astruggle, I will die, without stirring hand or foot. Do it, Heyling, doit, but save my boy; he is so young, Heyling, so young to die!"
'"Listen," said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely by thewrist; "I will have life for life, and here is _one_. _My_ child died,before his father's eyes, a far more agonising and painful death thanthat young slanderer of his sister's worth is meeting while I speak. Youlaughed--laughed in your daughter's face, where death had already sethis hand--at our sufferings, then. What think you of them now! Seethere, see there!"
'As the stranger spoke, he pointed to the sea. A faint cry died awayupon its surface; the last powerful struggle of the dying man agitatedthe rippling waves for a few seconds; and the spot where he had gonedown into his early grave, was undistinguishable from the surroundingwater.
'Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from a privatecarriage at the door of a London attorney, then well known as a man ofno great nicety in his professional dealings, and requested a privateinterview on business of importance. Although evidently not past theprime of life, his face was pale, haggard, and dejected; and it did notrequire the acute perception of the man of business, to discern at aglance, that disease or suffering had done more to work a change in hisappearance, than the mere hand of time could have accomplished in twicethe period of his whole life.
'"I wish you to undertake some legal business for me," said thestranger.
'The attorney bowed obsequiously, and glanced at a large packet whichthe gentleman carried in his hand. His visitor observed the look, andproceeded.
'"It is no common business," said he; "nor have these papers reached myhands without long trouble and great expense."
'The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet; and hisvisitor, untying the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity ofpromissory notes, with copies of deeds, and other documents.
'"Upon these papers," said the client, "the man whose name they bear,has raised, as you will see, large sums of money, for years past. Therewas a tacit understanding between him and the men into whose hands theyoriginally went--and from whom I have by degrees purchased the whole,for treble and quadruple their nominal value--that these loans should befrom time to time renewed, until a given period had elapsed. Such anunderstanding is nowhere expressed. He has sustained many losses oflate; and these obligations accumulating upon him at once, would crushhim to the earth."
'"The whole amount is many thousands of pounds," said the attorney,looking over the papers.
'"It is," said the client.
'"What are we to do?" inquired the man of business.
'"Do!" replied the client, with sudden vehemence. "Put every engine ofthe law in force, every trick that ingenuity can devise and rascalityexecute; fair means and foul; the open oppression of the law, aided byall the craft of its most ingenious practitioners. I would have him diea harassing and lingering death. Ruin him, seize and sell his lands andgoods, drive him from house and home, and drag him forth a beggar in hisold age, to die in a common jail."
'"But the costs, my dear Sir, the costs of all this," reasoned theattorney, when he had recovered from his momentary surprise. "If thedefendant be a man of straw, who is to pay the costs, Sir?"
'"Name any sum," said the stranger, his hand trembling so violently withexcitement, that he could scarcely hold the pen he seized as he spoke--"any sum, and it is yours. Don't be afraid to name it, man. I shall notthink it dear, if you gain my object."
'The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance he shouldrequire to secure himself against the possibility of loss; but more withthe view of ascertaining how far his client was really disposed to go,than with any idea that he would comply with the demand. The strangerwrote a cheque upon his banker, for the whole amount, and left him.
'The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that his strangeclient might be safely relied upon, commenced his work in earnest. Formore than two years afterwards, Mr. Heyling would sit whole daystogether, in the office, poring over the papers as they accumulated, andreading again and again, his eyes gleaming with joy, the letters ofremonstrance, the prayers for a little delay, the representations of thecertain ruin in which the opposite party must be involved, which pouredin, as suit after suit, and process after process, was commenced. To allapplications for a brief indulgence, there was but one reply--the moneymust be paid. Land, house, furniture, each in its turn, was taken undersome one of the numerous executions which were issued; and the old manhimself would have been immured in prison had he not escaped thevigilance of the officers, and fled.
'The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiated by thesuccess
of his persecution, increased a hundredfold with the ruin heinflicted. On being informed of the old man's flight, his fury wasunbounded. He gnashed his teeth with rage, tore the hair from his head,and assailed with horrid imprecations the men who had been intrustedwith the writ. He was only restored to comparative calmness by repeatedassurances of the certainty of discovering the fugitive. Agents weresent in quest of him, in all directions; every stratagem that could beinvented was resorted to, for the purpose of discovering his place ofretreat; but it was all in vain. Half a year had passed over, and he wasstill undiscovered.
'At length late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had been seen formany weeks before, appeared at his attorney's private residence, andsent up word that a gentleman wished to see him instantly. Before theattorney, who had recognised his voice from above stairs, could orderthe servant to admit him, he had rushed up the staircase, and enteredthe drawing-room pale and breathless. Having closed the door, to preventbeing overheard, he sank into a chair, and said, in a low voice--
'"Hush! I have found him at last."
'"No!" said the attorney. "Well done, my dear sir, well done."
'"He lies concealed in a wretched lodging in Camden Town," said Heyling."Perhaps it is as well we _did _lose sight of him, for he has beenliving alone there, in the most abject misery, all the time, and he ispoor--very poor."
'"Very good," said the attorney. "You will have the caption made to-morrow, of course?"
'"Yes," replied Heyling. "Stay! No! The next day. You are surprised atmy wishing to postpone it," he added, with a ghastly smile; "but I hadforgotten. The next day is an anniversary in his life: let it be donethen."
'"Very good," said the attorney. "Will you write down instructions forthe officer?"
'"No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I willaccompany him myself."
'They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney-coach, directedthe driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road, at whichstands the parish workhouse. By the time they alighted there, it wasquite dark; and, proceeding by the dead wall in front of the VeterinaryHospital, they entered a small by-street, which is, or was at that time,called Little College Street, and which, whatever it may be now, was inthose days a desolate place enough, surrounded by little else thanfields and ditches.
'Having drawn the travelling-cap he had on half over his face, andmuffled himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before the meanest-lookinghouse in the street, and knocked gently at the door. It was at onceopened by a woman, who dropped a curtsey of recognition, and Heyling,whispering the officer to remain below, crept gently upstairs, and,opening the door of the front room, entered at once.
'The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepitold man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood a miserablecandle. He started on the entrance of the stranger, and rose feebly tohis feet.
'"What now, what now?" said the old man. "What fresh misery is this?What do you want here?"
'"A word with _you_," replied Heyling. As he spoke, he seated himself atthe other end of the table, and, throwing off his cloak and cap,disclosed his features.
'The old man seemed instantly deprived of speech. He fell backward inhis chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on the apparitionwith a mingled look of abhorrence and fear.
'"This day six years," said Heyling, "I claimed the life you owed me formy child's. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, old man, I sworeto live a life of revenge. I have never swerved from my purpose for amoment's space; but if I had, one thought of her uncomplaining,suffering look, as she drooped away, or of the starving face of ourinnocent child, would have nerved me to my task. My first act ofrequital you well remember: this is my last."
'The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his side.
'"I leave England to-morrow," said Heyling, after a moment's pause. "To-night I consign you to the living death to which you devoted her--ahopeless prison--"
'He raised his eyes to the old man's countenance, and paused. He liftedthe light to his face, set it gently down, and left the apartment.
'"You had better see to the old man," he said to the woman, as he openedthe door, and motioned the officer to follow him into the street. "Ithink he is ill." The woman closed the door, ran hastily upstairs, andfound him lifeless.
'Beneath a plain gravestone, in one of the most peaceful and secludedchurchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and thesoft landscape around forms the fairest spot in the garden of England,lie the bones of the young mother and her gentle child. But the ashes ofthe father do not mingle with theirs; nor, from that night forward, didthe attorney ever gain the remotest clue to the subsequent history ofhis queer client.'
As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a peg in one corner,and taking down his hat and coat, put them on with great deliberation;and, without saying another word, walked slowly away. As the gentlemanwith the Mosaic studs had fallen asleep, and the major part of thecompany were deeply occupied in the humorous process of dropping meltedtallow-grease into his brandy-and-water, Mr. Pickwick departedunnoticed, and having settled his own score, and that of Mr. Weller,issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath the portal ofthe Magpie and Stump.